No One Else
by Sadie Flood
Summary: After losing Rory to Jess, Dean moves on.


Title: No One Else  
Author: Sadie Flood (sadieflood666@yahoo.com)  
Rating: PG-13  
Improv: mask, pumpkin, hollow, broom, mischief  
Disclaimer: I don't own anyone, nor do I own the song "Rid of Me," by PJ Harvey.  
Spoilers: Not for anything that's happened yet; we're just assuming that Rory is with Jess now.

_tie yourself to me  
no one else  
no, you're not rid of me_

Louise Grant has one surefire remedy for rejection handy at all times: the keys to her car. She has been known to reject boys on the grounds that their engines made too much noise. She likes new, expensive, sleek, and silent.   
  
The speedometer is steady at 90 now, but she knows she should stop soon because it's getting late and driving fast isn't working tonight.  
  
She can still see the look of gentle pity in Madeline's eyes after a heartfelt confession that took years to muster the nerve to offer. 100, 105, 110. She has to slow down. She has to stop. It's time to move on to plan B.  
  
She pulls off the highway at the next exit, cursing herself for not waiting until the billboards started to advertise gas stations with clean restrooms and snacks. Now she's landed in the middle of a residential hell--clean, tidy, quiet, and dark. House after house, lights off at 9p.m. She can barely keep from rolling her eyes.  
  
The closest thing this hole seems to have to a gas station is a grocery store, and that's all right because fuel wasn't what she wanted anyway. The lights are dim and she says a quick prayer that some nice, dim-witted stockboy might be willing to open the doors five minutes past closing time.  
  
But the door swings open on her first try, in an uncharacteristic stroke of luck. There doesn't seem to be anyone at the cash register, but she quickly gathers the necessary supplies and dumps them on the counter. A nice, dim-witted stockboy sets his broom against the wall and assumes the cashier position.  
  
"You play for both teams, huh?" she asks, an eyebrow raised. She's lucked out for the second time tonight: guys her age are more likely to forego that unpleasant ID check.   
  
"The store's officially closed," he admits. "I should have locked the door."  
  
"Well, I appreciate your hospitality."  
  
He puts her items in a plastic bag and takes her money without looking at her again. As he hands back the change, he asks, "You're not driving, are you?"  
  
"Maybe. What's it to you?"  
  
He shrugs. "Where do you live?"  
  
"Alabama. Can't you tell by my accent? I'm just passing through."  
  
"Okay." He hands her the plastic bag and their fingers meet tentatively.  
  
"Hartford. Where am I?"  
  
"Stars Hollow."  
  
She rolls her eyes. "What a perfect little name for your perfect little town."   
  
"It's a long drive back to Hartford. You're going to drink that when you get home, right?"  
  
"Of course, officer." She bats her eyelashes and walks away. 

_I beg you, my darling  
don't leave me, I'm hurting  
lick my legs, I'm on fire  
lick my legs of desire_

She pretends to be above it, but his concern touches her in some way. She shakes it off and gets back into the car, tossing the bag into the passenger seat. The big bottle of no-name vodka was 4.99 and the Mini Chips Ahoy were 79 cents. The perfect meal, she thinks, taking a painful swig. Unlike her parents, she prefers the cheapest alcohol money can buy. Her mother's expensive vodka goes down so smooth there's only a small sting going down to let you know this is something slightly more obnoxious than water. Louise likes to feel it going all the way down after she swallows, inflaming her throat, making her gag. This is her routine on nights like this: she eats a cookie and takes a drink, a cookie and a drink, until the pack and the bottle are both empty. The bottle is half-empty when her passenger door opens abruptly. She screams.  
  
"Sorry, I'm sorry, I didn't mean to scare you," the stock-boy apologizes quickly.  
  
"Well, you did. What do you want?"  
  
He hesitates. "You could get killed, you know."  
  
"I know. Thanks. Bye."  
  
He gets in, closes the door. "I just don't think I could deal with having that on my conscience."  
  
"And it's all about you?"  
  
"I shouldn't have sold you the alcohol in the first place. I could get in trouble."  
  
She just smiles. "Well, I don't know anyone who lives here, so I don't really have a choice but to go home at this point, do I?"  
  
"Come on," he says suddenly, which isn't exactly the reaction she was hoping for. He gets out, comes around, opens her door.   
  
"Where are we going?" she asks, as he takes her hand and pulls her out of the car.  
  
"You can walk it off," he reasons. "And finish the rest of that at home."  
  
"Hey, you can't tell me what to do," she says indignantly, grabbing the bottle with her free hand before closing and locking the door.  
  
"I could turn you in," he points out, and she can't think of a clever response. Her head feels like it's beginning to swell, a nice cushion building up around her brain, muffling her thoughts. This is the part she likes best.   
  
"Okay," she agrees, in a mild daze. 

_I'll tie your legs  
keep you against my chest  
oh, you're not rid of me  
yeah, you're not rid of me_

They walk through the town square. She nearly trips over a pumpkin and laughs for a good minute before beginning to rant: "What the fuck is a pumpkin doing in the middle of a path where people are supposed to walk? It's not even Halloween anymore. Goddamn pumpkin town with a stupid name." She is tempted to go back and kick the pumpkin, but he is taking her somewhere and she doesn't have the will to stop following him.  
  
He laughs. It occurs to her: "Hey, I do know a girl who lives here. She goes to my school. She doesn't really belong there, though, and now I see why, because she lives in a town with goddamn pumpkins everywhere in the middle of November and--"  
  
"What school do you go to?" he asks calmly, trying to talk her down.  
  
"Chilton."  
  
His expression darkens slightly; he thinks she doesn't notice. "I used to know a girl who went there."  
  
She stops, takes another long swallow, purses her lips as it burns into her stomach.  
  
"You used to?" she asks raggedly, feeling her mind recede further inside her head, letting the body take control. Yes, this is the part she likes best. "What, did she die or something?"  
  
"Yes," he replies solemnly.  
  
"Shit." She stops again. He looks back and starts to laugh. "You bastard. That's so not nice."  
  
He shrugs. "Maybe I've used up all my niceness tonight."  
  
She twists her mouth into a smile, her lips so slick with bright red lipstick they hardly feel real anymore. On nights like this, she uses makeup as a mask, makes up a fake name. This is not Louise, here, tonight. Louise is not the girl with the broken heart. Louise is the girl who breaks your heart.

_I'll make you lick my injuries  
I'm gonna twist your head off, see  
till you say don't you wish you never never met her?  
don't you don't you wish you never never met her?_

"Where are we going?" she asks again.  
  
"Here." He sits down on the grass, in the center of the town square.  
  
"Was there--was there some artful design to that, or did you just get tired of walking?"  
  
He shrugs. "Who cares?"  
  
"Good point." She stretches out on the grass, possessed by the desire to feel cold grass against her warm face, but sits back up after visualizing ants and dirt.  
  
They sit like that for a while as she finishes off the bottle. It is silent. No cops, even. Just this guy and whoever she decides to be tonight.  
  
"So what's your name?" she asks, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.  
  
"Dean."  
  
"Dean. I love that name. It's so perfect. Deeeeeeeeeeeeeeeean."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"Is it an earthquake, or merely a shock? Da da da da da, this feeling of joy, or is what I feel the real something?" she sings.  
  
"What was that?"  
  
"Dean Martin." She pauses. "No. Frank. Sorry."  
  
"So what's your name?"  
  
"Frankie. Wouldn't that be great? Frankie and Dean, together again, just like old times. Ooooold times."  
  
"Seriously."  
  
"Seriously," she repeats. "Don't you think it would be better if, when you tell your friends about me, you can say you never knew my name?"  
  
"If you say so."  
  
"So what are you doing here?"  
  
"You made me come here."  
  
"I mean, why aren't you at home?"  
  
"Oh." She pauses. "I had kind of a bad night."  
  
"Want to talk about it?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Okay."  
  
"I'm just... I'm in love with someone who doesn't love me. Someone who'll never love me. It's stupid." She shrugs. "It's high school. Who fucking cares?"  
  
"Yeah," he agrees.  
  
"So who's the lucky girl?" she asks.  
  
"What?"  
  
"I presume you have a girlfriend, and that's why you haven't made a move on the drunk girl yet. This is, like, a fucking record," she laughs.  
  
"Oh. No. Not anymore."  
  
"You poor baby," she says, and he can't tell if she's mocking him or being sincere. Maybe it doesn't matter. "Let me make it better," she whispers.

_I beg you, my darling  
don't leave me, I'm hurting  
big lonely above everything  
above everyday, I'm hurting_

He is tempted to say no, but the alcohol on her hot breath as she kisses him is so pungent as to be endearing and her hands are too insistent to refuse.   
  
And why should he? The girl he used to know is dead. He had spent so much time in the beginning, aware that he was her first boyfriend, going slow, taking it easy, not touching anything that would make her stiffen up, back away. She had been so paranoid about ending up like her mother back then. And now she was on the fast track to a baby and a fast-food job, probably fucking Jess every five minutes. The girl he used to know is dead.   
  
This girl requires no sensitivity, and would reject any he might offer. He feels like he is bound to her, as if doesn't have any choice but to give in. He's finally free.  
  
After it's over, Louise lets him walk her back to her car, and gives him a ride home, blasting the radio so they don't have to talk. She thinks she's frightened him, pushing too hard, too fast. It had been reasonably satisfying, but she had been holding back and she still feels like she went too far. She wonders why she cares. She'll never see him again. This is how it goes. When he thanks her and gets out of the car, she thinks: I was wrong before. This is the part I like best.   
  
She drives back to Hartford, keeping her speed limited, and passes out in the driver's seat before she goes inside. In the morning, Madeline will call and apologize again, like she's done so many times already, and Louise will tell her she doesn't remember anything she said the night before. She will challenge Madeline, tell her to repeat what Louise said. She won't do it; she will protect Louise from herself. They will continue to be friends, but it will never be the way it was before.  
  
When Dean sneaks up the stairs, he realizes his every step is being watched.   
  
"You're out late," his little sister observes, mischief twinkling obnoxiously in her sleepy eyes. "Did you finally make up with Rory?"  
  
"No, I did not make up with Rory. Go to bed."  
  
Her steady gaze turns into one of stout disapproval. "You should. I like Rory. She's a nice girl."  
  
"Yes, Rory is a nice girl. Go to bed."  
  
She rolls her eyes and closes her bedroom door.  
  
And Rory is a nice girl, he repeats.  
  
But maybe that isn't enough anymore.

_don't you don't you wish you never never met her?  
don't you don't you wish you never never met her?  
lick my legs, I'm on fire  
lick my legs of desire_


End file.
